


The tober of Whump - 2020

by troubleseeker



Category: Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Angel Castiel (Supernatural), BDSM, Blood Loss, Body Horror, Branding, Broken Bones, Captive Castiel (Supernatural), Captured, Caretaker Dean Winchester, Crying, Defiance, Dildos, Dom Jensen, Enemy to Caretaker, Exhaustion, F/M, Failed escape, Fear, Forced to beg, Gags, Guns, Hallucinations, Hanging, Hunter Dean Winchester, Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Impact Play, Indoctrination Theory, Inflatable Plug, Injured Castiel (Supernatural), Isolation, Kidnapped, Kidnapped Dean, M/M, Master/Slave, Mentions of drugging, Mouth Sewn Shut, Multi, Older Jared Padalecki, Oral Sex, Other, Pegging, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sacrifice Sam Winchester, Sensory Deprivation, Size Difference, Slave Castiel (Supernatural), Slave Dean Winchester, Slave auction, Sleep Deprivation, Starvation, Struggling, Sub Jared, Tentacles, Torture, Trail of Blood, Trauma, Verse Jared, Verse Jensen, Vibrators, Violence, Water Torture, Whump, Young Jensen Ackles, blinded - Freeform, breath play, broken down, caged, drugged, everyone is terrible, hole stretching, hunter masters, mafia, master Benny, non-consentacles, pistol whipping, sex worker bela talbot, youg Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:14:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 18,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26749339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troubleseeker/pseuds/troubleseeker
Summary: Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings = this is a collection of fics, each one has different warnings listed in the notes at the top.Tags/characters/relationships will be added per day and will be in the notes at the top of each ficlet as well.Unless specified, all chapters are unrelated to each other
Relationships: Bela Talbot/Viktor Henriksen, Benny Lafitte/Dean Winchester, Castiel (Supernatural)/Other(s), Castiel/Benny Lafitte, Dean Winchester/Other(s), Jensen Ackles/Jared Padalecki, Sam Winchester/Other(s)
Comments: 112
Kudos: 65
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	1. Castiel - LET’S HANG OUT SOMETIME

**Author's Note:**

> Day 1 - LET’S HANG OUT SOMETIME  
> Waking Up Restrained | Shackled | **Hanging**  
>  extra tags - sleep deprivation, exhaustion, breath play, slave Castiel, master/slave, fear

Castiel wants to weep in relief when he hears the thick metal door to the rest of the basement scrape open but he’s too dehydrated for his eyes to bother. He’d been dying for a drink even before he messed up, but now he’d be willing to do anything if it got him a drop of water. 

No, he’s willing to do anything to get out of the cage; to get the chance to not stand up, to sleep. Fuck water- it’s the least of his worries no matter how much his body screams for it. He needs rest so, so much more. Even the idea of earning the chance to kneel instead of stand makes his heart beat faster.

He can’t remember ever being this desperate before.

Even with sound announcing another person’s approach he can’t help the full-body flinch that follows when the light actually flickers to life and blinds him after what feels like weeks of complete darkness. He doesn’t close his eyes, though. Frantically blinking is as far as he dares go. If his master catches him with his eyes closed that light will go out faster than he can beg for mercy; he’ll be pleading to an empty room and he can’t hold on for another day- can’t hold on for another hour.

“Look at that, not sleeping this time?”

Castiel’s head drops further down, chin nudging his chest in shame. Not this time, no. Sluggishly his brain reminds him that he has to hold his arms behind his back; in the presence of his master. He isn’t going to be forgiven if he doesn’t shape up. He needs to be forgiven- get the chance to prove he’s worthy of mercy. 

Muscles full of lactic acid he whimpers his way into proper posture.

“Ah- you  _ do  _ remember your place. Took your time with that, didn’t you?”

Castiel’s voice wavers, unshed tears still messing up his vocal chords. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Hah. Sure you are. You’re always sorry. Sorry for this. Sorry for that- and what do I get? More bad behavior.” Castiel winces at the accusation, instinctually leans back when his owner suddenly appears in front of the cage. The world seems to be moving faster than he can think. The thin chain around his neck stops him from falling over completely; leaving him short of breath but no longer straying dangerously close to the bars of the cage. “Do you even remember what you’re being punished for  _ this  _ time?”

“Yes, sir. Please.” He knows he doesn’t have many chances at redemption. “I- this slave fell asleep without permission, sir.”

His master hums, well-polished leather walking out of Castiel’s view; towards the toy wall. Castiel stops breathing as he tries to hear what’s about to happen to him.

“Yes.” Castiel can hear the man’s fingers peruse the toys. Prodding at a whip. Trailing through a flogger’s business end. “Sleeping- on- the- job.” The man pauses as he taps something heavy against the wooden bench. “I can excuse many things, Castiel, but sleeping when you’re meant to be serving  _ me  _ isn’t one of them. Get him up on his toes.”

“Please, sir.” Castiel breaks. He’s speaking out of turn, but he has to start begging for his life now while he’s still got breath to do it. After what’s probably days of standing on his feet he can’t hold on much longer. “Please I’ll never do it again.”

“Up on his toes. Yes, sir.” A second voice; one of the trainers. Faceless men and women that change as often as the seasons. A motor rattles to life, dragging a chain with it, and Castiel’s heart rate skyrockets as he realizes it’s the one already around his neck.

“Please!”

The choke chain around Castiel’s neck pulls tighter and tighter; drawing him up onto his tiptoes, head tipped back and eyes fixed on the ceiling to find any semblance of breath. He whimpers, pathetic and he knows it but there’s no stopping the noise. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he’s proud of himself for holding position. His arms are still behind his back; hands around wrists and if he lets go he’s as good as dead.

He could try to save his neck by grabbing hold of the cage and lifting himself up till his arms give out, but he doesn’t. He’s being good.

“Never again?”

The motor clicks to a halt; leaving Castiel caught like a fucking fish. Chain links pinching his skin.

“No, sir. Never again. I swear, please.”

“How long’s he been down here?” 

Castiel whimpers, keeps his eyes open, and tries to hold on as the trainer checks his paperwork or something.

“Forty-two hours, sir.” 

“Huh- not even two days.” Castiel starts, barely keeping his balance, when a hand joins the chain around his neck. “Aren’t you a lucky boy?”

He gasps out, “Yes, sir.” on instinct; ingrained through years of conditioning. He’s not exactly feeling lucky, hanging here dead on his feet, but he knows it could also be much worse. His master could have waited longer; could have waited till his body gave up and he- “Thank you, sir.”

The hand squeezes tighter, fingernails digging into his skin hard enough to break it.

“Don’t you ever forget it, boy.”

“No, sir. Please, I won’t forget.”

The hand retreats, but it doesn’t get any easier to breathe. Even with a jackrabbit pulse, Castiel doesn’t bleed fast.

“Get this stupid cage out of the way.”

Fear makes Castiel sweat. It pricks between his shoulder blades and neck, makes the crease of his ass slick; his legs less stable. He doesn’t have any moisture to spare but he doesn’t know what’s coming. All he knows is that it’s going to be bad. He keeps his head up; eyes high. 

Not the cattle prod, probably- the two tipped thing could fit between the spiked bars that made up his cage easily enough. Or they just don’t want him to get torn up completely by convulsing into the barbs surrounding him.

He doesn’t move while the trainer disassembles the four tortuous walls they’d built around him all those hours ago; personal sized. Holds his breath when the individual sections get dragged across the floor - metal on concrete rattling his eardrums - and prays they don’t hit him. His palms, chest, and shoulders are already littered with small wounds that will scar if his master has any say in it. 

In the dark and exhausted beyond belief, he’d swayed far enough to lean into them over and over; grabbed them for support too. The ragged cuts were reminders of when he’d succumbed to exhaustion- enough pain to make sure he got up before he accidentally hung himself.

There was no warning for when the first strike comes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments feed me and headcannons/ideas/thoughts/... are so fucking welcome please tell me your thoughts I love them!!!


	2. Dean - IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 2 - IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY  
> “Pick Who Dies” | Collars | **Kidnapped**  
>  Extra tags: water torture - camera - mentions of being drugged - caged - kidnapped Dean

Dean wakes slowly. It takes fucking effort to get his eyes cracked wide enough to let in a sliver of light, and even with that done he can’t actually see anything. There’s no way for him to focus. 

Just blurry light filtering through his eyelashes.

With his eyes a no go, he tries to take stock of his fingers and toes. It feels like they’re still there, but for the love of some gods he can’t make ‘em move- or he can’t tell if he’s moving them. Whatever they gave him - yeah this ain't no basic bump to the head, he can tell - it's disconnected everything.

His eyes close without his say so.

Dean’s next awakening isn’t as slow. He’s yanked out of unconsciousness as every single one of his senses fire in distress. He’s falling.

Arms whipping around, he meets terra firma shoulder first and instinct makes him roll off the worst of the damage. Survival mode tells him to keep rolling, flipping onto his feet into a crouch while he has no idea who he’s facing. All he knows is that there's danger. There has to be. 

Still unsteady, he blinks hard, tries to make his eyes work. Tries to listen.

He learns he’s naked with a high pitched scream when he’s blasted from behind with a torrent of ice-cold water. There’s enough force behind the stuff to make him go to his knees, and the laughter that follows his scrambling attempt to protect himself hurts worse than the numbing cold. Looking over his shoulder is a no go, there's too much water pummeling him. Shoulders hunched, arms trying to shield his face, he still can’t see past his feet. The fingers and toes he couldn't feel before are making themselves known; they're pissed.

“Looks like a fucking wet cat!” 

“Make him dance, c’mon!”

“Dance hunter! Dance!”

The pressurized water changes direction and narrows to an even more powerful stream, slicing across Dean’s legs and feet and he can’t help but try to evade the pain. It takes three attempts to get up off the floor, and at least now, with his arms free, he can wipe at his eyes and fucking  _ look _ at where he is. 

It’s a cage- well, cell - is basic as can be. Probably means it's also well built. No fancy digs, just three damn concrete walls and thick metal bars to stop him from ganking the fuckers holding the hose. Coiled out of sight, the thing is massive. Like something you could be used to maybe put out fires; weird-ass tip that changes the torrent from pounding to knifepoint.

“Ooh, look at his face.”

“If looks could kill.”

“Back up, hunter. Back against the wall.”

They’re vampires, teeth out on display for the fucking hell of it. Probably think he'll be impressed. Dean certainly doesn't feel threatened by it, not right now. Sure, he’s weaponless and very naked - wet like a drowned rat too - but if they wanted to kill him they wouldn’t have bothered drugging him and dropping him in a cage. They need him alive, and that gives him a chance.

He lets them herd him against the back wall, concrete rough on his skin but the water pinning him hurts more. Pins and needles threatening to go numb. At least they open the hose back up to the intense but wide pressure setting to force him where they want him. It pummels his torso, and it fucking hurts but the thin stream would do actual damage. 

“Forgot to pay the gas bill?” He bites at them, voice breaking as his jaw starts chattering. “You’re out of hot water.”

He gets the torrent of water in his crotch for that, and it’s still kind of worth it. Jaw clenched, he glares bloody murder and tries to shield himself with his hip till they get tired of their game. 

“You getting that on camera?” One of the vamps laughs, and Dean’s eyes spit fire when he notices the small handheld device in another vampire’s hand.

“Oh yeah. You think he’ll have any dick left after this?”

He’s unsteady on his legs but now that there’s a steady surface behind him Dean can get his hands in front of his battered cock and balls; the portion that didn’t try to crawl back inside his body at least.  “Fuck you.” The curse loses most of its bite as he chatters, all recorded for their own sick pleasure no doubt- Dean vows to not talk unless he needs to.

“Nu’uh hunter. No hands.” The one with the hose tuts at him.

Dean can’t quite hold back the yelp of fear when the water gets aimed at his face, ducking down and away his arms fly up in defense. He can't help it.

“Had enough?”

Spluttering, Dean just glares at them instead. No shit he’s had enough. But the fuckers don’t let up, laughing at him as they force him to move. Crowd him into a corner, and switch up the pressure till Dean's sure he's been bruised to hell and back. His arms feel like lead; heavy and numb.

“Eh? Hunter? Had enough yet?”

The colder he gets, the more his anger bubbles up inside of him till Dean’s too full to hold back, and he bellows “YES!”. Of course, that just makes them laugh harder. He hates how he can't fight the water. 

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I’ve had enough.” He relents after what feels like hours but he knows that’s impossible. He's dead on his feet. Ran a mile inside a 50 square foot cubbyhole and he can't feel his toes at all.

“That's better.” The vamp with the hose tells him like he’s talking to a fucking toddler, but he also shuts off the water and Dean can’t help but feel relieved. He doesn't dare relax though. 

The relief grows when all three of them file out and take their stupid camera with them, leaving him to shiver his ass off in two inches of freezing water. It’s only later, when he finds and unclogs the drain that he realizes he has no idea who the vamps are or what they want with him- or the recording.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments feed me and headcannons/ideas/thoughts/... are so fucking welcome please tell me your thoughts I love them!!!


	3. Dean - Benny - Cas - MY WAY OR THE HIGHWAY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 3 - MY WAY OR THE HIGHWAY  
>  **Manhandled | Forced to their Knees | Held at Gunpoint**  
>  extra tags - manhandling, guns, violence, cult leader Castiel, FBI agent Dean, CIA agent Benny, mentions of torture, pistol whipping

For someone who claimed to just want to help everyone, Castiel certainly didn’t bother with the kid gloves. Dean’s sure his arms and wrists are going to be bruised to hell and back by the time he’s free again. 

For now, he frogmarches in front of the self-proclaimed leader like a chastised child. Deeper into the bunker that he’s ever been before.

“C’mon Cas. I can walk on my own.” Dean tries, but he’s met with a stone wall of silence. He kinda deserves it but he also really really fucking doesn’t. “I said I was sorry. It was an accident.” 

Castiel just huffs, he knows Dean is full of shit. No one accidentally makes a giant catapult out of furniture, and Dean certainly doesn’t feel sorry for anything but failing to aim right and not managing to escape. The journey from wherever Cas’ been keeping him to wherever he’s taking him continuous in stony silence, grip never easing up. 

You don’t need to be powered up on delusions of grandeur to know Dean Winchester will take advantage of any opening to fight and or run. With the discovery of Dean’s real ID, Cas isn’t taking any chances; handcuffs on so tight that even if he managed to somehow dislocate his thumb without Cas noticing it wouldn’t fucking help him.

They grind to a sudden halt in front of a door that looks identical to the one Dean was dragged through like ten minutes ago. No numbers. No name tags. No identification at all. They’ve passed a dozen doors like it on their way over here; the bunker is way bigger than Dean ever imagined. 

“I get a new room?” Dean asks, trying to make casual conversation as Castiel gets out a bunch of keys; there’s dozens of them jingling on a plethora of rings and it means that when Dean manages to get out of the cuffs he’ll end up losing valuable time opening any of the many doors between him and safety.

“Get in,” Castiel tells him, releasing Dean’s bruising wrists and pointing a gun that looks disturbingly like Sam’s Taurus at his head instead. “Now- Dean.” 

“Whatever you want, man. You just had to ask-ow.” Castiel is lightning quick with the gun, smacking Dean across the jaw hard enough to rattle his teeth. “Fuck.” Dean spits, breathing hard as panic tries to worm its way in. It’s unsettling to see Castiel like this.

He knew he was infiltrating a dangerous cult. Following the sparse trail of clues after Sam’s disappearance had unearthed more than a bit of creepy shit. He knew Castiel’s hippy-dippy live laugh love attitude was a front, but he’d gotten used to it after months and months of living with the man and his followers. 

“Get in. Or I break your knee and drag you in.” Castiel tells him, matter of fact and Dean doesn’t for a second believe it’s an empty threat.

Gun to the back of his head, Dean shoulders open the door and- yeah he knew Cas was insane but this is just that tad more than he’d planned to encounter.

“The fuck?” He breathes, but obedient for now, he steps forward till the gun stops bruising his skull. It’s a dungeon. A fucking  _ dungeon _ . Plucked straight from a shitty horror b-movie. Chains riveted into brickwork like it’s an aesthetic choice.

“Dean?” 

Forgetting Castiel and the gun for half a second, Dean whirls around. 

“Benny?” 

“A joyous reunion, I’m sure.” Castiel deadpans as one light flickers on. 

“Jesus-” Dean can feel the blood drain from his face. Benny had disappeared weeks ago. Fucking weeks- Had he been in that cage the whole time? Cas had said he’d had second thoughts and went back to his family- Instead he’d been down here. Was  _ he _ about to get shoved into a cage? 

Was this where Sam had ended up?

“FBI, CIA- I’ll have to start a collection.” Castiel laughs, gun still trained at Dean’s head. “I assume you’ve got other friends who are going to try and stop me. Very foolish, but I must confess that it’s flattering to get that much attention.” 

“Benny, you ok?” Dean whispers, trying to keep an eye on Benny as well as the maniac keeping them hostage. He winces at the bang of the sturdy looking door closing in on them; reinforced metal and wood that isn’t going to break under a boot.

“He’s well behaved and quiet, Dean. Doesn’t speak unless I tell him to.” The gun waves between the captives. “That’s a rule Benny here learned quickly enough, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, Castiel.” Benny’s voice is raspier than usual, but he answers at fucking once. Dean’s stomach drops. He doesn’t know if the man is actually CIA, or if it’s one of Castiel’s delusions, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s obviously been hurt- bad.

“You’re insane!”

“Perhaps,” Castiel chuckles, a darker sound than when he’s interacting with his followers. His laughter could roll across hills then. “But here’s the thing, Dean. Your people like to throw that word around a lot once someone becomes a threat to the cult that is capitalism. It says more about you than it does about me.”

“You’ve got a man in a cage, Cas!” 

“My name,” Their wise leader spits. “is Castiel. And you, Dean- if that really is what you’re called- have a lot of learning to do. A lot of unlearning too. That’s a sad fact- I’m not blaming you for  _ all  _ of this, you know. You can’t help being taught to hate and fear rather than love, but lying to me does hurt. I will admit that.” 

Dean stumbles at the sudden shove, whirls around to watch Castiel move. He’s still handcuffed- still being held at gunpoint- still at the mercy of a very delusional man.

Castiel turns on more lights, old ass fluorescents flickering above what boils down to the contents of a sex dungeon. Whips, paddles, knives, something that looks like a police issue taser, a plethora of strange metal  _ things  _ … and yards and yards of ropes and chains. Dean swears under his breath, trying valiantly to keep his heart rate in check; he can’t panic here. 

“Just as what comes next will hurt me more than you.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me! You sanctimonious bastard!” 

“I am a man of peace and love, Dean. None of this, except the result, will give me any pleasure.” The light makes a mockery of Castiel’s soft smile. “You’re a hard nut to crack, but have faith that I will not give up on you because of that. You just require- a different approach. Like Benny here did.”

“You call locking a man in a cage a different approach? This- You can’t seriously think this is going to work? That you’re going to get away with this? This is crazy, Cas- Castiel.”

“So beautiful and strong willed- it’s almost a pity I have to break you.” Castiel shrugs, smile still wrong- stupid flowy white robes smudging the lines Dean thought he’d drawn before coming here. “Oh well- we don’t have all day. Get on your knees.” 

“We can talk about this-”

“On your knees, Dean. I won’t ask again.” Castiel gestures with the gun, steel blue eyes never leaving Dean’s. 

“Cas-fuck! Ow.”

For a dude who spends a large part of his day sitting perfectly still as he meditates, he’s surprisingly quick-footed. A hand on Dean’s shoulder keeps him from running, and draws him off balance as a slippered foot stomps into the back of his knee. The only way is down. Fast.

Dean doesn’t know when Cas grabbed the gag, but the guy takes advantage of his open mouth - his knees hurt, god damnit - to get the thick rubber bit locked between his teeth; tied off behind his head; not something he can reach. 

“All beginnings are hard-” Castiel lectures, like this is his flower field instead of a well-hidden torture dungeon. “But a difficult first step doesn’t mean the path cannot get easier to walk with time.”

Dean rubs his head against his shoulder, trying desperately to dislodge the straps holding the bit in place, and gets pistol whipped again for his troubles. He can’t hear the guy moving away- fucking hippy slippers whisper-soft on the concrete floor. He only knows Cas is back when the guy grabs his cuffed wrists and yanks them up- hard. It forces Dean’s shoulders to bow forward, makes him get his head down or he’s dislocating something. There’s a metallic rattle, and then Castiel’s hands leave, but Dean can’t pull his hands back down. 

“Isn’t that right, Benny?”

Dean tilts his head up, finds himself looking right at Benny- CIA or not he’s retreated to the back of the cage like a frightened animal. From this close, it’s quite obvious that the man is both naked and far skinnier than when he disappeared. 

“Yes, Castiel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ficlet got continued on day 16!!
> 
> Comments feed me and headcannons/ideas/thoughts/... are so fucking welcome please tell me your thoughts I love them!!!


	4. Sam - RUNNING OUT OF TIME

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 4 - RUNNING OUT OF TIME  
>  **Caged** | Buried Alive | Collapsed Building  
> didn't really go with the time aspect ... buttt  
> extra tags: slave Sam, caged, master/slave, oral sex

Sam’s not sure when he got used to the kennel, but he has some way back when memories of hating it. He likes it now. It’s home. It’s easier now- 

“Good morning, sir.” He breathes, blinking the sleep from his eyes and rolling over onto his knees when he hears the blankets on the bed fall back. It’s still dark, but Sam knows when his master’s awake. And when his master is awake, so is he. Always. 

He waits patiently. Every day is different but the same. Keeps him on his toes. Makes sure he’s actively trying to serve rather than devolve into some routine. He needs to be ready, he needs to listen. Needs to be good.

Bare feet fall to the carpet in front of his kennel, and Sam keeps his eyes on them only - no looking up, be good - as he hears hands patting across the nightstand for the key to his lock. His master sighs when he manages to accidentally shove the small thing off the tiny table and onto the carpet. 

“Fuck.”

Sam holds his breath, counting the seconds his master doesn’t move. If the man cannot be bothered to hunt down the key he probably isn’t going to be let out for hours. As much as he likes his kennel … he likes being out even more. Sleeping curled into a ball is fine, but crouching all day was hell on his body. 

Master can function without his pet; doesn’t need Sam to survive- but Sam needs his master. 

He breathes in relief and gratitude when master does get down on his knees to pat across the carpet. It means he wants Sam with him today. He could have left his boy here for the cleaning staff to deal with; has done exactly that in the past.

“Get out.” his master orders, dropping the padlock on top of the cage and swinging the door open.

“Yes, sir.” 

Sam is always very polite. Being polite is a good thing to be. He needs to be good.

“Get my shower started.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Glad to be useful, Sam quickly crawls to the bathroom. Good boys don’t use their feet. Good boys know how to open a door without standing. Good boys know exactly how hot they have to put the shower, and where to kneel and wait.

Sam is a good boy. He really really is.

He keeps his posture and his eyes just where they need to be, and waits. Master never takes long. The steam filling the shower is a treat. Bad boys didn’t get to relax like this.

He keeps his eyes down when his master enters the room, waiting for him to check the temperature and either like it or send Sam to get punished. It’s been a long time since he’s had to be sent down to a trainer, but Sam knows that all it takes is a small mistake.

He doesn’t want to make mistakes; small or otherwise. He really really doesn’t.

“Sam.” His master calls his attention, and then snaps his fingers. That’s all he needs. No, sir, Sam does not need any further queues. He knows what to do. He knows to be quick. To be soft. To arch his back all pretty and keep his head low. Into the shower and in front of the man that lets him be good.

“Good boy.” Rains down on him like sweet summer rain. Sam’s blood sings. “Now suck.”

Sam knows where to go on muscle memory alone. Raises his head a bit and just opens his mouth. He’s already wet. Spit and throat ready at all times. Just suck. Just make it good. Just be perfect.

He’s done this a thousand times, and then another thousand times over. Easy as breathing.

It brings Sam nothing but joy when master still fists his hair, still grinds deep when he gets close to his orgasm. Just like the first time, like he can’t get enough of Sam’s mouth. It’s a good feeling. Sam’s wanted. He’s good. 

He relaxes his shoulders, his jaw, his mind- a mouth. He’s a mouth. He’s a hole. He’s good.

One of master’s hands slides down to his throat, curls around it, just above his collar. Sam waits- waits for air to disappear. Master is fond of letting him fly. 

He’s good. He’s trained. He doesn’t make mistakes.

And his master wants him.

He’s good enough.

And he wants this.

“Fuck, Sam” Master growls, and Sam can’t wait for the dick in his mouth to swell further. For master to come down Sam’s throat, he moans - master likes his moans - as his body reacts to the treat it knows is coming. There’s nothing quite like master’s come.

It means he’s good.

It means he’s wanted.

He needs it more than water.

Master bullies him back, back, back, till there’s a wall behind his head to tap tap tap against with each thrust. Sam’s throat clicks, gag reflex removed ages ago but he knows when to flex to make it good. 

His throat makes room when master pushes in, in, in. Nowhere to go but down. 

There’s no fight here- no conquest for air. Quiet acceptance of his palace, his spot, his duty. Master chooses. 

Master knows.

Most of master’s come gets pumped down his throat, but master pulls back to let Sas savour the last of it. 

“Thank you, sir.” He croaks when breathing and talking is once again possible, and sticks out his tongue to dutifully lick off the last of the offering. Showers are for cleaning. Cleaning and sucking and sometimes fucking. He likes showers. He likes master.

“Good boy.” Master says, makes Sam lose his breath and whine in more gratitude. Pats Sam’s head twice before reaching for his shampoos and soaps. Master likes being clean.

Sam closes his eyes to the suds. Doesn’t need to see to lick his master’s dick clean.

He’s a good boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments feed me and headcannons/ideas/thoughts/... are so fucking welcome please tell me your thoughts I love them!!!


	5. (young) Dean - WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 5 - WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING?  
> On the Run | **Failed Escape** | Rescue  
> extra tags - young Dean, failed escape, random man, size difference, oral sex
> 
> I don't specify Dean's age here beyond that he's too young to legally drink, I'm leaving the person interpretation up to the reader.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” 

Dean jumped back, too quick a reflex for how drunk he’d been pretending to be, evading the arm slammed across the tiny hallway. Thick, and covered in what were probably gang tats or something, it belonged to the guy he’d just cleaned out at the pool table. 

“Toilet.” He bluffed. Arms wide and wobbly like his near miss was a fluke. “Is that a crime here?”

He should have stopped and taken the money he’d managed to swindle out of the pool players two hours ago- he’d gotten cocky- needed the cash too. Food, gas- new shoes for Sam.

“It is when you’re robbing people, boy.” Tattoo guy heaved the rest of his body into the hallway, blocking all of Dean’s almost escape route. He hadn’t looked that big at the table.

“Didn’t rob no one!”

“Oh we’re going to have to agree to disagree on that one, boy.” He leaned in, alcohol breath washing over Dean’s face and god he needed a mint and a toothbrush- “And we don’t really disagree, do we? We all know where the fuck your pretty little ass was headed.”

Dean swallowed thickly, trying to calculate how fast the guy could run, and how good his chances were of making it out the front door unscathed or not. Tattoo guy had seemed popular enough- and the bar had still been pretty full when he’d started retreating towards the toilets and the conveniently located emergency exit. 

“You don’t get to take my money and leave like that, kid. I’m not fond of charity.” Tat guy pushed forward, got his fingers under Dean’s chin, made him look up. 

“Won it.” Dean tried, jerking his head back. “Fair ‘n square.”

The giant grabbed his hair instead, jerked it hard enough to make Dean stumble into a wall. “Nothing fair ‘bout it and you fucking well know it. Now you’re either giving it back, or you’re earning it the real way.”

“Fuck you.” Dean threw back, squirming like a caught fish. All he had to defend himself was a tiny knife in his boot but tattoo didn’t look like the kind of guy to back off when threatened. “Let- me- go!”

“Yeah, no.” Dean gasped for breath, shaking his head ineffectually as the giant’s second hand closed around his throat. “Don’t think I’ll be doing that.”

Panic setting in, Dean tried to kick at the guy who apparently had steel instead of calves, grappling with the hands keeping him pinned.

“I think-” Pressing even closer, Dean couldn’t move at all under the man’s weight. “I’m going to get my money’s worth here, and you-” He tipped Dean’s head up, thumbing at his lips. “You’re going to be a good boy and let me.”

Dean shook his head no, heart somewhere down in his stomach. 

“Oh yeah you are. Not like you can do anything ‘bout it.” Tat guy laughed, lifting Dean off the ground to nuzzle into his neck.

He couldn’t catch his breath, suddenly too aware of the guy’s dick pressing against his hip. He knew where this was going. Knew what the guy was implying. Knew he did not fucking want any part of it. “Don’t.” He jerked hard, trying to wrench himself away; tip of his boot scraping across the floor trying to find leverage.

“Nu-uh kid.” He tapped Dean’s head against the wall. Not gently, but he could have done worse; a warning. “You be nice and quiet now, or I drag you back out there and tell the rest of the bar you’ve been conning ‘em too. Let ‘em get their money back as well.”

Fight wasn’t an option. Neither was flight. Eyes wide, Dean felt himself go still. He was fucked. 

“Yeah, you don’t want that, do you?”

Tears pricking, Dean shook his head. “No.” He felt way too sober for any of this.

“Can’t run, can’t fight, can’t call the cops- You’re all fucking mine.”

Dean shivered, the guy leaned in to nuzzle his neck. Fucking  _ licking _ him. Dirty and wrong and fucking disgusting- but he was right. Even if he got his knife out there wasn’t much of a chance he’d get out unscathed, and what on earth would the cops do but arrest him for underage drinking? He didn’t call for help.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Down on your knees, bitch.” 

Dean let himself get shoved down to the ground, the wall behind his back the only thing keeping him steady. The beer in his gut already threatening its sour return; he felt numb.

“Such a pretty face,” Tattoo murmured, legs caging Dean in; no way out and he knew it. “No clue why you even bother hustling pool, you’d earn more like this.”

“Please-” Dean didn’t really know what he was begging for. Mostly for this all to end, probably. For it to just be a nightmare or something-

“Shhhh. Put those dick sucking lips to good use.” 

Dean watched, horrified, as the giant unzipped his jeans and heaved a bigger dick than he’d ever seen out to slap against his bloodless cheek. 

“Kiss it.” The guy commanded, tapping the thick bulbous head against Dean’s numb lips. “Or I drag you out there and pass you around.”

He was going to cry. Breathing in short near hyperventilating bursts, Dean made himself purse his lips. Getting force-fed one dick was going to be bad enough- there were over twenty guys in the bar. He didn’t have a choice.

“There we go. Now here’s how it’s going to go.” A massive hand tipped Dean’s head back, staring up up up at the guy holding him hostage. “You’re going to open up for me, and I’m going to fuck your pretty mouth and if I feel  _ any _ teeth I’m breaking em. Got that?”

He could barely nod, but he did. No teeth- how hard could that be?

“Good.” Tattoo crooned. “Now open.”

Deans wasn't sure how he'd be able to, but his jaw inched wider and wider; letting the guy's dick inside of him. Let the thick, slick head drag across the flat of his tongue- push past frantically covered teeth- didn't fight the hands cupping his skull- gagged as it went too deep and then shoved even deeper. He was going to hurl- he was so going to hurl.

As his stomach spasmed, and his throat rebelled the invasion, Dean's mind skipped sideways- so fucked-

"Made for this."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments feed me and headcannons/ideas/thoughts/... are so fucking welcome please tell me your thoughts I love them!!!


	6. J2 - PLEASE...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 6 - PLEASE ...  
>  **“Get it Out” | No More | “Stop, please”**  
>  extra tags - J2, hole stretching, age difference, young Jensen older Jared, dom/sub, dom Jensen, sub Jared, bdsm, oral sex, vibrators, inflating plug, verse Jensen, verse Jared

“Reach back.” Jensen rumbles, eyes locked with Jared’s. He doesn’t want to miss a single second of his reactions. “And give me two more pumps.”

“Fuck.” Jared’s eyes are glistening with unshed tears, but he does as he’s told. He balances on one arm and fumbles for the rubber hose dangling between his legs. “Yes, sir. Oh fuck-” He goes crosseyed as he pumps, once, twice; inflating the already large plug inside of his ass. “Fuck- fuck- fuck-”

Jensen leans back, savors the way Jared maintains posture even though his arms are shaking. Head nice and high, back arched just how he likes it. Legs wide, though that might be because of the plug- no way to get all shy with a fist sized plug in your guts. “So good for me, babe. Not moving a single muscle just like I told you.” He makes himself sit back, sips his scotch, a played calm- so many things he wants to do and all he’s allowing himself is patience. “Think you can take two more?”

“Please, no, sir.” Jared whines, arms buckling under the strain. Jensen’s sure his sub has been pumping heavier weights again; he’s gotten bigger. “Please, mercy.”

Jensen humms, twirls the glass to make the ice cubes clink, watches Jared sweat. “Turn around. Let me see that hole. Nice and slow.”

“Can’t go fast.” Jared whimpers, head low as he presents Jensen with his stretched hole.

“Posture.” Jensen reminds him, drinks up the moan that spills from Jared’s luscious lips as he lifts his head and straightens his arms. “That hole all stretched out?”

“Fuck- yes, sir.”

“Feel good?” He watches Jared breathe, watches him struggle to come up with a full answer. Balls full, mind empty. “Answer me, pet.”

“Yes and no?” Jared hedges, jumping when Jensen leans forward to trace the stretched skin; fingers chilled from his glass. 

“Yes and no?”

Jared gives a breathe uhuh, and Jensen knows just how his eyes are rolling back when he presses down on the plug. It’s bigger than what they’ve played with so far. So big and still Jared is letting him use it on him. 

“Yes it feels good, and no it doesn’t feel good? You’re going to have to explain that to me sweet thing.” Jensen waits, lets Jared find his words; plays with the plug as he does. Jared whimpers so prettily. 

“Feels good but hurts, sir?” Jared whines, head dipping before he snaps it back up again.

“Good hurt, I’m assuming?” Jensen taps sharply on the plug, following a rhythm only he knows to hear Jared sing the notes.

“Oh fuck. Yes, sir.”

It’s almost sad that Jared can’t see him smile, but Jensen’s pretty sure that Jared knows. It’s in the way he goes all quiet- all still- waiting in eager horror.

“One more pump.”

“Fuck, sir.” But Jared does it, reaches back to fumble for the rubber ball - small in his massive paw - and squeezes.

“Breathe, babe.” Jensen warns. “There you go, so good for me.” He paws at Jared’s ass, feels the tremors coursing through him. Smacks his rump. “Let me see you, turn around.”

Jared’s eyes are blown wide, drunk on lust, and Jensen runs fingers through his beard; pets his head like a particularly clever pet. Jared leans into it, noises spilling from his gorgeous mouth; pants, breaths, huffs, broken whimpers.

“What turns you on more, the plug, or the fact that you’re a forty-five year old man on his knees for a twenty-two year old?”

“Both, sir.” Jared mumbles, cheeks a deep red. He’s breathing hard, swaying drunkenly into Jensen’s touch. “God you’re so hot. Please can I suck your cock? Wanna suck you so bad.”

Jensen sits back, strokes his dick nice and slow to see Jared lick his lips; he’s hungry. “Does my big boy need something in his mouth to take his mind off of things?”

“Please, sir. Please- yes- please let me. God you’re so  _ big _ .”

“How about-” Jensen fucks his fist, just barely, hips moving on their own. “You give me one more pump and I’ll let you.”

Jared’s face falls beautifully, caught between want and  _ want  _ but also fear. He’s a pleaser, furthest away from a bratty sub as he can get apart from the odd flippant joke. Whatever Jensen wants, Jared wants; needs. 

“You know you want it, daddy.” Jensen taunts, wags his dick back and forth and knows he’s smiling like a maniac when Jared reaches back with a pained whimper. He licks his lip, feels himself flush with the power he holds here. “Just one more pump. Show me how bad you want this in your throat.”

“Fuck.” Jared croons, lost in endorphins and subspace as he inflates the toy inside of his hole that fraction further. It’s got to be nearing its max- Jared’s barely holding it together. Shivering, panting open mouthed for air as he sways.

“Jesus that’s hot.” Jensen whispers, offers his dick to Jared’s dripping hole of a mouth. The older man doesn’t waste a second, suddenly moving fast enough to jostle the toy and he’s crying as he swallows Jensen to the hilt. Tears across hollow cheeks.

He lets Jared suckle at him for a bit, enjoying the ever living fuck out of his well trained mouth. Pros to dating an older guy- they’re experienced. 

“Play with my nipples.” He commands. Gives Jared the chance to work  _ him _ up for a change. Lets Jared hear his moans, his pleasure. Waits till Jared is nose deep in his neatly trimmed pubes before he thumbs on the remote he’d kept hidden till now.

The reaction is instantaneous and fucking  _ divine _ . The plug buzzes to life and there’s absolutely no need to put it on high speed. Jared yells, but with about 8 and a half inches of prime dick in his throat, he gargles instead, body surging forward like he can escape the thing that’s very very stuck inside his ass.

He wags the remote at Jared’s befuddled face, one hand keeping the sub in his place around his dick. “Surprise. You like it?” 

Eyes rolling back, Jared nods, moans. Paws at Jensen’s legs and humps thin air like it’s Jen’s ass. 

“God you look so good like this.” Jensen pants. He’s fucking Jared’s face in earnest now, making a space for himself down the other man’s throat. “Made for this. Made for my dick. Jesus, take it.”

Jensen pulls back to make a mess of Jared’s face, rubbing his spent dick across furry cheeks; lets Jared lick and kiss as the last dribbles before he has to push his over eager mouth away. Has to catch his breath as Jared lies on his thigh, still waiting; still so fucking full. Still so fucking good- makes Jensen feel evil.

“Can I come now?” Jared whines, eyes playful. “Please?”

“You  _ have _ been very good.” Jensen hedges, petting a hand down Jared’s sweaty back till he can prod at the vibrating plug, fingers the tube and pulls till he has the pump in his grasp. “Maybe another four pumps.”

“Oh please, sir. No- mercy.” 

“Oh, why not?” Jensen looks down into his lap, rubs at the come streaking across Jared’s nose.

“Can’t take it, sir- Jensen- please. Mercy.”

“How about one?”

“Fuck- sir.”

“One more and I’ll let you fuck me.” Jensen watches Jared’s eyes lose focus, the guy really does tend to think with his dick. Jared’s already nodding. He should have gone with two pumps. “Oh yeah you’d do anything for a chance to get at my hole, wouldn’t you?”

Jared nods again, sucks at Jensen’s fingers, throws puppy eyes into the mix.

“Ready?” Jensen tugs on the plug, waiting for Jared’s shaky nod. “I wonder if I could make it pop inside of you.” Laughs at Jared’s whines. “Another time. Just one pump for now, good?”

“Yeah- please. Please.” 

The one last pump is all Jared can take, Jense knows it. The man is trembling like a leaf, eyes out of focus.

“Breathe, babe. Breathe for me. So perfect.” 

Jared’s still suckling at his fingers, tongue working automatically as he tries to comfort himself. Jensen watches him, wishes he was filming the whole thing. He’d zoom in on Jared’s face, his leaking dick, stretched hole. He doesn’t give Jared a warning when he flicks the release valve open.

Jared collapses, strings cut, as relief rushes through him. Babbling mess on the floor at Jensen’s feet. 

Grinning, Jensen slides down to straddle Jared’s blissed out face. Presenting his hole for Jared’s oral fixation.

“C’mon big boy. Get me ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments feed me and headcannons/ideas/thoughts/... are so fucking welcome please tell me your thoughts I love them!!!


	7. Dean Castiel - I’VE GOT YOU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 7 - I’VE GOT YOU  
> Support | Carrying | **Enemy to Caretaker**  
>  extra tags: hunter Dean Winchester, angels Castiel, caretaker Dean, captive Castiel, confined, enemy to caretaker, injured Castiel

Dean’s not sure how the fuck it happened, or even why. But somehow it did. Someone issued the command, and now he - Dean Winchester, hunter extraordinaire - is babysitting a Jesus fucking bona fide angel.

The creature is hurt. Wings banged up and bare in enough places that the thick spelled chains holding them still are a bit excessive. No way the thing can fly with those battered things. No way is Dean taking them off either; regulations are regulations. Plus angels are strong and sneaky bastards. No matter how injured it’s no doubt plotting destruction and Dean’s death and a single moment of weakness would end it all.

“Breakfast.” He announces, flicking on the main lights. 

The angel never answers, just stares at his captor in chief with his unnaturally blue eyes as he goes about his business. 

“Porridge- again.” 

It’s been porridge for days. Dean’s sure if he has to eat another bowl of the stuff he’s going to scream, but the angel doesn’t complain. Just tenses when Dean gets close to him and opens his mouth when he’s offered a spoon of the vile stuff.

“You know. At first, I didn’t mind you being so damn stoic.” He tells the angel. “But we’ve been stuck in this stupid bunker for three weeks, featherbrain, and I’m sick of talking to myself.” 

The angel blinks, stares, and says absolutely nothing.

“Suit yourself.” Dean snaps, very aware that his annoyance scares the angel. Chained to- well, the room, the creature can’t do a damn thing if Dean decides to stop being friendly. “It’s not like an angel could say anything worthwhile.” He shovels the last of the food into the creature’s mouth. “Fucking monsters.”

He spends the morning dicking around in the war room, trying in vain to get more info on who the angel is and why he’s feeding the thing instead of putting it out of its misery. If Sam were here he’d figure it out. 

Instead, all Dean has scrounged together is that it’s a high ranking bastard. Black wings are a status thing, apparently. 

He takes all of his guns apart, lovingly cleaning and oiling every piece to take his mind off his boring as shit reality. By the time he feels like eating, it’s been eight hours since the porridge. They’re running low on supplies- he’ll have to make a grocery run soon- he doesn’t feel like he should. He’s been stretching what he has in the hopes that the angel would get taken off his hands before he runs out, but it’s looking less and less likely.

Fucking angels. 

Fucking hunter society.

Fucking- “Rice and beans.” Dean sighs, “Again.” He moves to turn on the light only to see he forgot to turn the things off. With a huff, he kicks the chair closer to his unwilling charge. 

The angel flinches, tries to make himself smaller. 

“Oh c’mon man!” Dean plops down in the stupid chair, scoops up food. “I haven’t fucking touched you.”

The angel frowns, chews slowly and eyes Dean before glancing at the bandages covering his naked chest and legs.

“You were bleeding all over my floor.” 

The angel shrugs, opening his mouth for another spoon.

“What was I supposed to do? Let you die?”

The angel shrugs again, rattling the chains that keep him locked up, and keeps an eye on Dean’s angel blade. A precaution, Dean tells himself. 

“Hey!” Dean chastises, shoving another spoon forward. “I’m a hunter, not a killer. Unless you freaks start making trouble on earth we leave y’all well alone.”

The angel huffs, rolling his eyes. It’s the most emotion he’s shown besides fear so far.

“What?” Dean frowns. “It’s not like we can get into your dimension.”

The creature stops chewing, stares at Dean’s face like he’s looking for a lie. But it’s not. Angels fucking teleport across dimensions, no hunter is doing that. There’s no reason to anyway. They keep earth safe, that’s it. 

“What?” He prods, holding out the last of the food. It’s cold by now. 

The angel is slow to accept the last spoon, chewing thoughtfully. Dean rolls his eyes this time. Stupid angels. Weird ass creatures.

At least it’s eating and drinking without too much fuss. He should count his blessings or something. HQ could have made him play nurse to a werewolf or a hag. Those  _ shed  _ and  _ vomit _ . He checks the chains, prods at the bandages. 

“Good night angel.” Chair back against the wall, Dean turns down the light. He’s pretty sure leaving anyone, angel or not, in a brightly lit room for a full day counts as torture. 

“Castiel.” The creature rumbles, voice way deeper than Dean would have imagined. Like he’s gargled stones. Like it hasn’t spoken in decennia.

He whirls around.

“What?”

“My name-” the creature hesitates. “My name is Castiel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments feed me and headcannons/ideas/thoughts/... are so fucking welcome please tell me your thoughts I love them!!!


	8. Gabriel - WHERE DID EVERYBODY GO?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 8 - WHERE DID EVERYBODY GO?  
> “Don’t Say Goodbye” | Abandoned | **Isolation**  
>  Extra tags: Gabriel, Asmodeus, mute Gabriel, blind Gabriel, blinding, mouth sewn shut, isolation, sensory deprivation, torture

They should have stopped after they sewed his mouth shut, but they hadn’t. They’d thought it couldn’t get much worse and they’d gotten through a spelled needle piercing their lips over and over again. 

No more running their mouth now. 

Not without pulling on the rough string at least, and all that filters through when they try anyway is mumbling. 

But they’d still been sane.

They’d had fight left- a bit of spunk. 

They’d tried their best to keep up the resistance. Growled. Rolled their eyes. Fought tooth and nail when there was an inch.

They knew it wouldn’t last. Not after this- already cracking at the edges. Even moments into the new holding cell they’d felt their core start to crumble. Lone wolf all the way but  _ this _ ?

“Goodby pet.” Asmodeus tells him, and They can’t help but try to open their eyes to see him. 

Can’t, of course. The prince of hell burned out their eyes after drinking deep from their grace, leaving them in a deep darkness they couldn’t escape. The pain hadn’t been the worst of it.

Grace low, this wouldn’t heal for a long time. Longer still if Asmodeus continued to feed on them.

Following the sound of retreating feet, it’s almost a relief to realize that the ropes and chains haven’t pinned their head. Panic settles sour in their stomach when they realize that truly it’s the only part of their body that they can. They’re trapped. Pinned.

Blind, dumb- broken and alone. No one knows they’re here.

Caught in blind darkness, unable to scream- they can’t even talk to themselves. 

The door drags shut slowly, and suddenly they’re caught in silence too. It’s unsettling. 

They’re not meant to hear their heartbeat, but they can.

Every breath pulled through a broken nose too harsh.

Air whispering between strings too loud.

They have nothing but the floor beneath their manacled feet- calves- knees. 

Arms caught in front of them, suspended in nothing but they can’t pull them in. Can’t make sure the rest of their body still exists.

They find a rhythm eventually. Back and forth, rocking themselves like a child to hear the melody of their bonds- feel the pull of the shackles on their skin- their tendon- their joints. 

There’s no choice, just survival.

They lose their mind to find peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments feed me and headcannons/ideas/thoughts/... are so fucking welcome please tell me your thoughts I love them!!!


	9. Sam + tentacles - FOR THE GREATER GOOD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 9 - FOR THE GREATER GOOD  
> “Take Me Instead” | “Run!” | **Ritual Sacrifice**  
>  extra tags: sacrifice Sam, unwilling, rape, tentacles, eldritch monster, young Sam, body horror

Sam loses his voice long before the dreaded creature shows up. Shivering from cold and fear, he can’t do much more than groan in terror as its enormous mass makes its way out of the seething waves and onto the rocky beach.

He’d spent hours screaming for mercy after he’d been “divinely appointed”. Dragged from his brother’s arms and dropped in a secure cell deep inside the church he’d known exactly what his fate was. He’d switched tactics and started yelling insults instead. It hadn’t helped.

He’d been muzzled while they transported him down during the dark of night. No doubt to keep him hidden from Dean’s resume attempt. Whisked away between priests and guards he’d barely gotten his feet on the ground; thick cloth gag filling up his mouth to stop him from so much as whispering for aid.

The sacrificial altar was a well kept secret. Sam had known there was very little chance of a last minute rescue. He’d still screamed as soon as the gag was removed. 

He’d howled Dean’s name into the salty spray slowly creeping up to his manacled feet till he couldn’t. Begged to be found. Prayed for the sun to rise and the sea to reject him. 

But Dean hadn’t shown up.

And the sea had tasted his skin and approved because the creature was here and it wasn’t hesitating.

Lips cracked with salt, Sam’s mouth opened on a silent scream. Terror, horror, primal fear … the thing was huge. It wasn’t even fully out of the water and it towered over him. No wonder the preachers were so keen to keep it satisfied. If it ever grew angry with the town it would dwarf even the church.

“Please.” He begs, vocal cords brined and barely working. “Let me go.”

But no sacrifice has ever returned- not even in pieces. They get picked by the priests and disappear. Plenty of grieving family members that tried to find anything to mourn or bury returned empty-handed.

Tentacles swarm onto the rocks, too many to remind him of any animal fished from the depths. This is no octopus- no squid. This is a god- a monster- cobbled together terrors and nightmares without end. The wind whips away Sam’s attempted screams. 

He’s caught by more than just the manacles rubbing his wrists and ankles raw. Terror has him pinned to the large slab of dark sea smooth stone with more force than Sam has energy to fight. His heart jackrabbits in the thin hollow that is his chest.

Can’t close his eyes to the sluggish approach. The thing is huge but it’s taking its time. Blind suckers feel across pebbles, dip into shallow rock pools, and head right for Sam’s manacled feet. 

It’s instinct, some last ditch attempt at survival, that makes him kick at the first tentacle. He’s delirious with hope when the feeler retreats as if burned, but it gets extinguished just as quickly when the thing returns to prod at him. 

Almost like a game, it pokes and retreats. It tests him, figures his range- figures out how little he can actually move. It gets bolder then, more tentacles swarming Sam’s trembling body as it heaves its enormous mass closer. 

Tentacles curl around all of him. Pull him up off the slab till the chains pull him short. His back arches, cramps, tendons protesting the agonizing stretch. It drops him, lets him breathe, curl in on himself, while it finds the manacles.

What Sam couldn’t do in the hours spent lying here, the tentacles do in seconds. Eyes bug wide, he watches metal get wrenched open. If only he had energy left to run, but his legs are dead to the world. They wouldn't carry him more than two steps.

He cries, already broken, when the creature picks him up again. Like a toddler who doesn’t know how to be gentle yet, it dangles him by a leg and an arm, shakes him back and forth before he’s smacked against the pebble beach. Sam grapples at the loose stones when tentacles wrap around his ankle again; yanks him back and then up. Blood rushes to his head as he flails. 

Grunts when he’d dropped again, draws in ragged breaths around bitten tongue blood, screams anew as it pulls him in all directions. He’s a toy, a toy who won’t survive much longer if it’s used this rough. 

He cries in relief when he’d dropped back onto the wide, angled slab and left alone for more than a second. He’s hurting all over, winded and bruised, but it might be over now? It would be a mercy to get eaten now.

Instead, ignoring his seizing sobs, the creature seems intent on stripping him now. It’s almost tender in how it undoes his buttons, reveals a motley of black and blue skin; goosebumps in the cold. Won’t let him curl up and cry in peace though. Just drags the near delicate tips of its tentacles across every inch it reveals.

Sam doesn’t react much, too traumatized and battered to bother, till it finds the space between his legs; lifts his soft curve of cock and dips further down to find his hole. The reflexive clamp of legs gets him caught in a mass of writhing tentacles and stretched out like a starfish. It happens so quickly he barely realizes it. Leaving him lightheaded and hurt anew as the creature keeps up its exploration. 

No longer gentle, the creature seems to have found what it was looking for. Sam gasps for breath, leg muscles on fire as he tries to fight the crushing hold on them.

The burn of two tentacles demanding entrance to his body at once makes his whole body seize up tight. The creature doesn’t care much, lifts him up by the neck and lets gravity help it invade his sacrificial offering. Sam screams, can’t figure out what to try and fight first. He needs to breathe, but his groin is on fire, and it doesn’t matter anyway because all he can move is one arm.

He gets pulled wide, tears at some point, Sam’s sure of that- but there’s so much pain he can’t focus on where it all comes from. Dangles like a broken puppet as it pushes further in, slides around, drags him down. 

He’s already crying dead man’s tears when the creature decides it wants more still from him. His dick, in no way interested in any of the proceedings, is forced rigid with a chokehold tentacle around its base, only for yet another tendril to find his piss slit. It’s yet another horror on the long list, but it still hurts.

He can’t even try to scream when his mouth is deemed too empty as well. Sam thanks the stars; it just tastes like salt. If there was a dead fish in his mouth while he was torn to shreds from the inside out he’d have cried- cried more. Cried for different reasons. 

The tentacles in his ass drag back, turn him inside out- Sam is sure of it - and he prays that it’s over but Sam’s not that lucky. They’re just making room for another tentacle.

It’s thicker than the others, more stumpy, less suckers- more bumps.

Sam hiccups, chokes on salt water as he’s maneuvered into place. He hadn’t noticed just how far the surf had risen. Stone altar only just visible above the waves with the cliffs rising up in the blurry distance. 

He’s lost feeling in his limbs, circulation cut off by tentacles for too long now. 

The tentacle in his throat pulls out just in time for him to scream as his hole makes contact with a living writhing tree stump; gets shoved down despite the fact that it cannot fit. He can feel his insides get shoved around to make room. His guts don't stand a chance against the monster's strength. Can't breathe right, and it's not just the fear- his lungs are being compressed. 

When his head flops forward, he gets a terrifying look at what's happening- what's still to come. His belly is bulging, grotesque tip pushing out above his belly button as it slides from side to side; nudging his ribs. 

As he feels his body tearing around the monstrous tentacle, Sam’s mind slides into catatonic darkness. It’s been too much- can’t take another second of consciousness.

His last thought, flitting in and out - is that he’s pleased that Dean will never find him. His brother, at least, will never know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leaving this one open-ended tooooo... does Sam survive? Is he being used as an incubator? Is he getting eaten? So many options and they're all open to interpretations!!! 
> 
> Comments feed me and headcannons/ideas/thoughts/... are so fucking welcome please tell me your thoughts I love them!!!


	10. Castiel - THEY LOOK SO PRETTY WHEN THEY BLEED

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 10 - THEY LOOK SO PRETTY WHEN THEY BLEED  
>  **Blood Loss** | Internal Bleeding | **Trail of Blood**  
>  Extra tags: hurt Castiel, angel Castiel, blood loss, trail of blood, body horror, captured

The world goes loopy when you’ve been shot from the sky. It’s a lesson Castiel learns the hard way. 

He’s got snippets left. Sky, clouds, trees, dirt - a fuckton of pain - and now… concrete. No movement. No audio. Like a snapshot was taken every time he blinked. Interspaced with a blessed lack of knowledge.

Being conscious isn’t a gift. It’s agony.

He’s sure several bones in his wings are shattered. Even when he stops breathing and lies perfectly still, they radiate with spiked heat. There’s a light breeze, blowing towards a wide door he has no chance of ever reaching. He’d need to move. He can’t move. He doesn’t want to move.

Every inch of him is begging him to not move an inch.

Of course, his day gets worse.

Whoever shot him from the sky- no angel falls like this by accident- whoever moved him from his muched up crater- they’re not going to leave him alone. He blinks, and the doors are closed- there’s a chain around his ankles, pulling tight before agony radiates through every cell in his body. 

He passes out after the second tug backwards, brain scrambling away.

He’s moved about 6 feet when his brain restarts, checking in on reality. The door is still in view for half a heartbeat before he passes out again.

The rinse and repeat of gaining and losing consciousness pushes him towards insanity. He’s never been suicidal but he wishes for death now. It would be better than this- anything would be better than this.

He wakes up again, very much against his will, to blessed stillness. Without the added agony of being dragged backwards, he doesn’t instantly fall back into the deeper darkness than the one hiding behind his closed eyelids. Drawing in air is painful. He breathes shallow and slow- his lips tingle, doesn’t know where his arms are.

There’s no way to gage how far he’s travelled, no way to pinpoint his location- with his wings this mangled his grace is working overtime to keep him alive. He can’t sense beyond his own skin, and truth be told he doesn’t want to. He wants to crawl as deep inside his mind as he can and lock the doors- can’t take any more of this.

As he lies there, Castiel manages to open his eyes. He has no idea why he wanted to, but he does. He stares at a concrete floor, rough and pitted- it’s dusty, but the light catches on a streak of blood that snakes between his outstretched arms and into the distance, into the darkness of the corridor he’s in, the only clue to where he’s come from. 

It’s a lot of blood.

Too much blood, even painted this thin.

Either he’s only recently started bleeding or he’s far more anemic than he realizes… or it’s not all his blood.

Whoever has him… they know what they’re doing. Probably hunters- who else can bring down an angel without a summoning circle? Who else  _ wants _ to bring down an angel?

Feet appear out of the distance, walking neatly besides the bloody streak. Solid boots with legs longer than Castiel can look up. It’s hard to focus, but Castiel’s almost certain there’s two of them. Two humans.

He couldn’t fight a rock right now.

His vision wavers when one of the humans steps on a wayward feather and his wing gets dragged to the side. The pain bubbles out of his mouth in a pained whimper that gets ignored by the humans.

Despair washes over him when he hears the chain get picked up again. This isn’t his end destination- Under the humm of lazy human speech the slow journey starts over again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments feed me and headcannons/ideas/thoughts/... are so fucking welcome please tell me your thoughts I love them!!!


	11. Dean/Benny - PSYCH 101

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 11 - PSYCH 101  
>  **Defiance | Struggling | Crying**  
>  extra tags - slavery, slave Dean, drugged, vampires, non-hunter Dean, defiance, struggling, crying

Dean’s still groggy when he’s shoved on stage. Chains dragging heavy, he stumbles and gets dragged back upright by the arm. 

“Lot three-fifty-two. Large Caucasian male, A negative. Freshly captured, and still unbroken- for the adventurous owner who prefers to train their pets exactly to their specifications. No tattoos, no long term drug use. Not a virgin- but was observed engaging with multiple parties. I’m sure any owner, with a bit of effort or charming, will find this one to be a great all-rounder. Let’s start the bidding at five-hundred. Do I hear five? Five in the corner thank you, ma’am, and six in the back there. Can I get seven?”

He blinks at the crowd, swaying from side to side as little placards get raised. Up, down, up, down, up, down- rinse and repeat. Vision wavering, there’s no way for him to make out faces, but Dean knows what this is. Monster auction- no- auction  _ to _ monsters.

Something that’s technically illegal but there’s enough people that vanish to feed the rumors. With monsters having lived in hiding for centuries, there were apparently habits that were hard to break once they went into the open. Why bother hiring someone to work for you when you can buy one? Probably ended up cheaper in the long run or something- didn’t bite you in the ass if someone died. 

“Going once, going twice, sold! For two-thousand-one-hundred-and-fifty dollars to the gentleman in the back. Congratulations.”

Dean’s still busy flinching from the thunderclap of the gavel when he gets ushered off the stage. 

They slip a bag over his head again and he can’t help but pass out again. 

“Lafitte. Picking up three-fifty-two.”

The drugs cycle through Dean, keeping him nice and soft when the bag pulls away for the dude that bought him to inspect his purchase. He frowns at the guy, tries to pull away when he reaches for his face. Gets a light tap for that. Just sound, no pain, but it shakes him into compliance. 

“There we go, cher.” the guy croons at him. “There we go.”

The chains stay on, but the guy moves around them. Lifting and twisting limbs till he’s seen every last inch of Dean. Even squeezes his jaw till he can see inside his mouth, counts his teeth. 

Getting the bag back feels comfortable. 

“And would you like to pay for delivery? Or is he take out?”

“Delivery. My address is on file.”

“Yes, it is. Seems like everything here is in order. You can expect him tomorrow evening.”

There’s the sting of a needle, and the darkness turns to nothing.

The first thing he feels when he starts coming to again is sick. His stomach is sticking to itself it’s so empty, but the thought of eating is even worse. Nauseous. That’s what he feels. 

Nauseous and weak. 

God, his arms feel like lead. 

Like he’s swimming in fucking molasses and the pillow someone shoved inside his skull isn’t helping. 

When a hand stroking through his hair gives him the fright of his lifetime, all he really manages to do is flinch and make a pathetic attempt at rolling away. He doesn't even get onto his side; one arm under his chest and pushing without any effect. He gets his eyes open though, staring at a thick carpet.

The hand stays where it was.

“Easy there, darlin.” 

Dean, of course, does not want to take it easy. There’s vague memories of a van, of a stage, of being naked and open and afraid- he needs to get out of here. His second attempt at getting up is marginally better than the first. He’s on his knees, trying to figure out which way it up and out.

All it takes to get him back down onto the padded floor is one hand. 

Dean swears, tries again. Yanks his arm free and falls flat on his face instead. 

“You’re just gon’ hurt yerself. Calm down.”

But Dean’s not calming down. He’s working himself into a panic. Flailing arms connect once- hears an angry hiss and gets pinned down to the carpet in the blink of an eye. 

“Look at me, Dean. Look at my eyes.”

Something at the back of his mind tells Dean not to- base survival instinct ingrained in a lizard thousands of years ago. 

“It’s all right, darlin’. You can do it. Look at me, beautiful.”

The fight dies out slowly, drugs still keeping him muddled enough that the gut instinct gets lots in the rest of the fear. There's no point to his struggle, he realizes. Dean looks over his shoulder. Finds blue eyes- and can’t look away.

“There we go.” 

He gets turned around, floor under his back, hands holding his head steady.

“Perfect. That’s what you are. And just for me.”

Too loopy for words, Dean settles for a mental headshake. 

“Oh yes you are. Paid in full, cher. That means you’re mine now, and I'm not one to share.”

You’re not meant to own a human being, Dean knows that much. Slavery is illegal, even when you’re a monster. But he can’t look away- can’t.

“Oh don’t worry your pretty face. I’m not the worst master out there.”

It isn’t comforting. 

“You just be a good pet and it won’t hurt much.”

Dean starts crying the second the teeth come out. It’s amazing how quickly he sobers up with adrenaline rushing through him. Not that it does him any good. High definition fangs are just as bad as hazy ones when you can’t look away, let alone run. It's worse, actually. It's too many teeth- too many- too close-

Inside, he’s screaming at his body to move- it doesn’t. 

Whatever spell he was under breaks when the vampire breaks eye contact to lick at Dean’s exposed neck. Clear-headed enough to remember that he needs to run, Dean tries to get out of the vampire’s grasp. Thumps at the guy with balled up fists and exhausted arms when squirming gets him nowhere. His heels scrape across the floor between the vampire's legs. the man that's not a man tuts at him, hands keeping Dean in place like it’s nothing. Nowhere to go- 

“You can’t win, cher. Just relax- this might sting a bit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments feed me and headcannons/ideas/thoughts/... are so fucking welcome please tell me your thoughts I love them!!!


	12. Sam -  I THINK I’VE BROKEN SOMETHING

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 12 - I THINK I’VE BROKEN SOMETHING  
>  **Broken Down | Broken Bones** | Broken Trust  
> extra tags - baby, I'm so sorry

Sam’s not sure what he did wrong today to deserve this. He must have done something- 

He sighs, stares at the smoke coming from baby’s open hood for another minute and then stares at the mangled remains of his phone for a couple of minutes too. Just in case either of them magically repair themselves.

They don’t, of course. He’s not that lucky.

He kicks a rock instead. What the fuck is he meant to do now?

He got to the gravel at the side of the road and turned off the engine as soon as the warning lights started blinking at him, and then he’d checked for things that were actively on fire when he saw that there was smoke... but that’s where his car fixing skills end. Dean had trained him in the arts of checking and changing the oil, and he knew how to change tires cause duh. But this was more than that. 

This was an actual mechanic needed here problem. 

Which meant he needed Dean for this, but Dean was in  _ hell _ . Dean was in hell and counting on Sam to get him out except Sam was fuking stranded in the middle of a desert.

Sam let out a frustrated breath and kicked another rock- and then he screamed. “Fuck!”

The rock hadn’t budged, but something inside Sam’s foot fucking well had. 


	13. Cas+Sam - BREATHE IN BREATHE OUT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 13 - BREATHE IN BREATHE OUT  
> Delayed Drowning | **Chemical Pneumonia | Oxygen Mask**  
>  extra tags: patient Cas, caretaker Sam, human Cas, evil Sam, hospital bed.

Cas pulls in labored breaths. They need to go deep- Sam’s adamant that he needs to breathe deep. 

“Pneumonia is bad enough, I don’t need you losing lung function.”

So he breathes, and he makes them go deep- even when it hurts. It always hurts. It’s getting better, he thinks. He’s been confined to the sickbed for a week now; isolated from the rare visitors to the bunker. 

“Pneumonia’s contagious, Cas. I can’t have you infecting anyone else.”

Sam’s the only one who comes in. Hands gloved, mouth masked- Cas is glad for every damn visit. Every latex covered touch is a blessing he leans into. The contact is intoxicating. He misses it more and more- wants to ask Sam to stay. Wants to beg for it; really. But he knows it can’t happen.

Sam’s looking for Dean. 

Sam’s working.

Sam’s hunting.

He can’t be down in the med bay coddling an angel gone human- and angel gone shitty human. How long had he survived on his own before he’d gotten sick? A week?

He was lucky Sam had even agreed to nurse him back to health.

Pills to take away the pain.

Pills to help him sleep.

Food cut into the tiny pieces he could handle. Fed spoon by spoon into his hungry, tired mouth. 

“He Cas, how you feeling?”

Cas pulls himself from his semi sleep. Too focussed on breathing to do much thinking or paying attention.

“Sam.” He coughs, winces at the blood and the pain in his side. “‘M sorry.” The tissues are close by, but the bloodstain doesn’t come out that easy. He feels like crying.

“Blood- that’s not good.” 

Sam presses a gloved hand to Castiel’s forehead. 

“Bit of a fever again. I’m getting you some different antibiotics. Leave it, Cas. I’ll change the sheets before I leave.”

Cas nods, hangs his head in shame. So broken he can’t even react to the medicine right. He’s glad for Sam’s care- he is - but the idea that he’ll leave again makes him feel even weaker. Unworthy.

“Maybe some aerosols again.”

Cas winces when Sam brings out the gas mask. He doesn’t like the aerosols. They sting.

“I know.” Sam sooths. Eyes crinkling above the mask. “But it gets the medicine deep in your lungs, right where it needs to be.”

Cas doesn’t fight when Sam straps the mask in place. Murmurs his dislike into the fogging plastic mouthpiece. Sam knows best.

“You’ll be right as rain soon enough. Just need to deal with the vessel, right?” Sam’s efficient. He knows his way around the medications, the straps, the pills, the temperatures. “Luck of the draw I suppose. Bit of a weak immune system. You’ll need to be careful once this clears up in a couple of weeks.”

Cas nods. Sam’s told him before. Some people just get sick a lot. 

“Did you find any information on Dean?” 

“There’s a lead, I’m having some hunters check on it.”

“You should be out there.” Cas laments. “Not taking care of me here-”

“Shush.” Sam stops him. Looks into Castiel’s eyes. “You’re important to me, Cas. I want you to get better. I want you right by my side. You’re my friend.”

“I’ll get better soon.” Cas promises, coughs at the sting of the medication as it smokes up the mask. “I’ll be able to help then.”

“You’ll be my right hand man.” Sam smiles, eyes crinkling above the mask. “But first you need to breathe deep. Get those lungs feeling better again.”

“Yes, Sam.”

“I’ll be back with your pills and vitamins in a bit.” Sam pats him on the shoulder, and Cas knows he’s about to be left alone again. His heart speeds up. “You sit tight and breathe deep while I get your lunch ready.”

Cas nods obediently. He doesn't have much of a choice here. All he had is a rapidly mounting debt-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments feed me and headcannons/ideas/thoughts/... are so fucking welcome please tell me your thoughts I love them!!!
> 
> I imagine Sam as soulless here- and Cas is human so he can't really tell...


	14. Castiel - IS SOMETHING BURNING?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 14 - IS SOMETHING BURNING?  
>  **Branding** | Heat Exhaustion | Fire  
> extra tags - hurt Cas, angels Castiel, trauma, fire, hunting, captured Castiel, slave Castiel, auction, bondage, body horror, fear, hunter masters, Gabriel (angel)

Cas can smell the stench of fire and burning long before he sees the white-hot irons. The charcoal smoke stings his lungs, but the wisps of sulfur mixed in with the stomach twisting odor of cooked meat and rendering fat make his eyes water and his heart clench in terror. The screams don’t help either.

The slow-moving line of angels is caught between metal walls. Nowhere to go but forward. Ever forward. Nowhere to stop. Nowhere to wait and think- a conveyor belt of newly minted slaves inching towards their doom.

Cas stumbles another step when the angel in front of him moves, can feel the captive behind him do the same. If only this was the end, he wishes. 

But he knows it’s not. It’s a new beginning. Another one. He’s almost gotten used to it- the disappointment of yet more fear smashing through his life.

First the terror of the war that ended in the destruction of their lands. Everyone had fled- trying to find new places to exist, but it was to no avail. They’d been hunted down. Pocket after pocket. Every outpost and nest sniffed out and chased down till capture. Cas had known the hunters were coming. 

Every time they lost contact with another nest. Every time a lone escapee found their way into their arms. More signs and stories of the inevitable.

Somehow, the humiliation of the auction block stood out to Castiel. Blinded, naked, and very afraid he’d only heard the worst stories about this. How the humans leered and laughed- how they claimed angels as their own with placards and money. Numbers- lives reduced in seconds to just numbers.

The stories never ended there though. Castiel knows what’s next. What’s waiting for him at the end of the shuffling line. Pain. Pain that will let anyone know who he’s been bought by. Which human owns his vessel. 

_ Only  _ his vessel.

This flesh, bone, and feather package that holds his grace is all that humans will ever hold. His spirit will be his own. Castiel swears it to himself, as the line steps one pace forward and another scream rips through the air. 

His throat clicks dry when he swallows, the smoke is everywhere now. Close enough to feel the heat of the fires.

Nervous, he tugs against the spelled cuffs. Not out of some deranged hope of escape, no. He knows no angel escapes once he’s brought down. Unless you get left for dead in a field by accident while still alive, or there’s a rare golden opportunity to run, no angel finds freedom again. There’s too many hunters here. Even if they broke- there was nowhere to go but forward. But still, he can’t not worry the bindings.

They  _ sting _ .

Above all the humiliation- it hurts. 

And it’s  _ wrong _ . No one should be bound like this. Branded like this. Forced to serve a master other than the creator.

Forced to bear the mark of ownership.

He’s close enough now, to see the way the poor sod at the front of the line tries to resist. But the humans have perfected each step of this process and there is no getting out of it. From traps and runed nets to hold them during the hunt, to cuffs and tattoos that lock their power long term ... these men are skilled at their jobs. 

They stand on top of the metal walls, spears tipped with angel blades. Ready to prod forward those that would turn around. The thin path they walk on stops the captured from breaking out of line. No way to freak out and trample the merchandise when you can’t turn around. No way to rush forward and stampede either- there’s gates that slam closed every couple of meters- 

Start. Stop. Start. Stop. All while screaming and crying echoes around them.

Cas watches, unable to look away, as the workers chatter. Easy conversation running smoothly between them as they pick which brand goes on which angel. They tie their victims down quickly and easily. Rudimentary ropes to immobilize for the seconds it takes to press the cruel instrument to their skin. 

Some are small, pushed deep into the muscle of a shoulder.

Others are large, taking up an entire thigh.

The screaming doesn’t seem to be any better for either of them.

Leaden legged, he stumbles forward another step when the angel behind him pushes forward. A spear swings down, forces them apart again. Only three more steps, and he’s the one screaming his lungs out. Only three more steps and he knows which letters will adorn his skin for the rest of his mortal life. 

The ropes loosen, and other men drag the now catatonic angel off of the wooden bench and into another corral. Perhaps to treat the wound. Perhaps to mark him even further.

Only two more steps. This time he watches as an intricate letter C is burned into a thigh. The angel passes out on the block, tumbling to the floor when the ropes release his body. They grab his feet, and get him out of the way just as fast as the one who could walk, uncaring of the way his wings drag across the floor.

Only one more step; metal bar shoved crudely in his path. Keeping him in line. He doesn’t know the angel straining against the ropes, but still, he cannot stop watching. He gags on the stench of blackened skin, clutching his own bound hands to his shoulder when he sees a brand get forced against the sensitive skin above the wing joint. 

The sudden knowledge that  _ he _ is next filters through his numbed mind. But it’s too late to try and fight. He had that chance during the hunt. Now he’s stuck at the front of the line with another terrified angel shoved up against his back, and a deadly spear at the ready somewhere above his head. 

The men don’t care that his feet won’t work, probably used to tugging at new slaves till they move where they’re needed. Fresh terror floods him when his back is pressed against the bench; wings pinned beneath him and held in place with crisscrossing ropes. 

It’s going to go on his chest.

He strains, the last of his energy useless in the display of human might. Words fly over his head, eyes caught on the filigree W set above a flaming five-point star. He’s been bought by one of the hunter clans. 

He’s going to serve the men that captured him.

But first he’s going to scream. 

The initial pain is sharp and quick. The nerve endings flash and fry in the intense heat, leaving nothing to send pain signals behind. They leave the brand where it is, making sure he’s marked deep, and the fire radiates out to new unblemished skin. His lungs freeze when they run out of air. 

Castiel doesn’t remember the ropes falling away. All he knows is the sweet relief of water and salve that follows later. They bind his arms behind his back to stop him from picking at the sluggishly bleeding wound. There are no blisters as far as his horrified eyes can see. The top layer of his skin is just missing in intricate bloody lines that will certainly scar.

A permanent mark of ownership.

He’s pushed into a brightly lit room with several other slaves, all branded as he is. The star with a  _ W _ on the left side of their chest. 

His legs are too tired to remain standing, and he sinks to his knees. 

“Castiel.”

He recognizes the horrified voice and crawls towards it. Pitiful and scared.

“Gabriel.”

They lean on each other, crying tears that could belong to any of the emotions washing over them now that the branding is done.

Pain. 

Fear. 

Exhaustion. 

Anger.

Even happiness to find a face they recognize in the sea of unknown, and then sadness that their brother is here too. 

Caught. 

Lost.

“It’ll be alright, Cassie. It’ll be alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments feed me and headcannons/ideas/thoughts/... are so fucking welcome please tell me your thoughts I love them!!!


	15. Dean + Castiel -  INTO THE UNKNOWN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 15 - INTO THE UNKNOWN  
> Possession | **Magical Healing** | Science Gone Wrong  
> extra tags - trauma, war, broken bones, horror of healing

Dean doesn’t hate the angels- they’re just as much cogs in this stupid war machine as he is. Same could be said for the demons he’s fighting. Maybe. 

The propaganda is getting a bit too on the nose to make any sense, but they're the ones trying to kill him day after day after day.

“Forgive me.” Castiel, the squad’s angel, whispers as he reaches for Dean’s wounds. His eyes glow bright in the barely lit barracks. 

“‘s ok, Cas.” Dean grunts, hisses through his teeth, and does his best to not attack. Hunters get bred to be more aggressive, to react to pain with even more aggression. Their training revs that inherent trait up a couple of notches too. Makes them perfect frontline fodder. 

“Almost done.” Castiel never raises his voice, never defends himself when one of his charges lashes out either. When the pain of muscles and bones knitting back together makes them forget where they are. Replaces their medic with an enemy. It happened a lot in the beginning- ages ago. “Almost-”

“My fault.” Dean grits out, grabs the sheets instead of Cas’ skull. “Wasn’t paying attention.” There’s no way to get used to bullets growing out of a wound. No way to get used to healing, period. Why didn’t they genetically engineer pain tolerance? “Didn’t see the third demon.” Maybe they had, maybe some regular sod wouldn’t survive getting healed over and over without passing out.

“I’m sorry-” Castiel looks pale. “Your leg- it’s- there’s a hairline fracture. Several of them.”

Broken bones hurt the worst. Dean nods, calls for Sam and Benny to hold him down. They shove a bit in between his teeth for good measure, grab his arms, and get out of biting and headbutting range.

“Forgive me.” Castiel says it every time, with every soldier he heals- 

Dean watches the first few seconds. Sees Castiel’s eyes light up, sees the blue grace transfer from Castiel’s tired, gentle hands to his leg- and then he’s clenched his eyes shut hard enough to see stars fire behind his eyelids, teeth biting down on the bit as his entire body rebels. 

It’s been healed so often- it knows the pain that follows grace and it does not want it. It doesn’t have much of a choice. Hunters hunt. Hunting comes with injuries. Injuries come with healing. Healing comes with pain. No such thing as a sickbed in this war zone. Every squad is on duty all the time.

Not like the government can afford to keep breeding new hunters. Replacing fallen soldiers would bankrupt the nation. No amount of DNA muddling makes a human grow old enough to fight faster. Training takes time too. Pairing squads with indentured angels was far more cost-effective. Patching up soldiers over and over again.

“Done.” 

Dean doesn’t really need the memo. The pain induced rage is already waning- his need to attack whoever had been “injuring” him losing steam. That and his leg doesn’t feel like anything but just a leg.

“Thanks, Cas-” He’s still breathless, spits the bit out, waving Sam and Benny off of him. “Owe you one.”

Castiel’s smile is hollow. He knows his healing is not a gift here. Not anymore. Hasn’t been for a long time. Nods at Dean before he shuffles to the next bed.

“Forgive me.” He tells the groaning soldier and proceeds to heal them too. Replacing open wounds with his grace.

Dean doesn’t know how much of his body is still his own. After over a decade of fighting- over a decade of healing- most of him has to contain at least a bit of the angel. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments feed me and headcannons/ideas/thoughts/... are so fucking welcome please tell me your thoughts I love them!!!
> 
> This was inspired by a tumblr post on how getting healed over and over again would totally mess with someone's mind and how they felt about their body....


	16. Dean - Benny - Cas - A TERRIBLE, HORRIBLE, NO GOOD, VERY BAD DAY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 16 - A TERRIBLE, HORRIBLE, NO GOOD, VERY BAD DAY  
>  **Forced to Beg | Hallucinations |** Shoot the Hostage  
> extra tags - cult leader Castiel, FBI agent Dean, CIA agent Benny, mentions of torture, starvation, forced to beg, hallucinations, isolation, gags, indoctrination  
> This is a continuation of the fic on day 3!

Dean’s not sure if it’s the isolation, the hunger, the dehydration, or the lack of sleep that triggers the hallucinations… all he knows is that there’s no way any of this is real. Or some of it isn’t, at the very least. 

There hasn’t been any noise near his secure little box in a long, long time. Just the occasional footsteps, and even those are far in-between. He’s meant to be reflecting on his thoughts and actions, and Cas insists he does it in contemplative silence. No fucking distractions. No fucking nothing. 

Dean’s sure isolation is classified as torture or something, it has to be. Certainly feels like torture. With Benny well educated in the art of being perfectly quiet, it didn’t take long for Dean’s world to shrink down to whatever square footage he has in her. Straining his ears for any sounds than his stupid heartbeat. 

Like Cas coming in to check he’s not died by accident, or Cas walking around doing his stupid secret messed up saving the world shit, or Cas taking Benny out of his cage. Or Benny crying- Dean’s sure he’s a terrible person for feeling happy when that happened. Made him feel less alone. 

Now there’s not much else to hear but his stomach begging for food and water.

With no way to tell when Cas fed him last- barely enough to appease the gnawing hunger for an hour let alone the days since. Or maybe it had been hours? He sleeps so much now it’s impossible to keep track of time. Each fitful slip into unconsciousness could last hours for all he knew - Dean’s bought a ticket to crazy town. Just waiting for the train now.

Which- choo choo- has arrived. The torturous silence and hunger have driven him mad enough to imagine a tv outside his black little box. Muted dialogue and distant laugh track- occasional dramatic baseline. It has to be his head- some Dr Sexy rerun he’s seen often enough that he can replay a vague pantomime while he lies catatonic in a crate … Unless Cas set up a lounge while he's been out cold- you never know- people who start cults and lock other people into little boxes and starve them for fun might also like setting up tv’s in strange forgotten corners of their dungeon. 

The lights  _ have  _ to be hallucinations though. There’s nothing in the box but Dean- he’s checked repeatedly - plus they don’t fuck off when he closes his eyes. Little whisps- vague and distant sparkles that move and bounce to the sound of his heart and the dramatic dialogue he couldn't actually hear.

All in all, they’re a distraction from the fucking agony of eating his own internal organs. The jury’s still out on good or bad distraction- Dean’s pretty sure he prefers the deep nothing of sleep, actually.

He’s not getting out of here alive, might as well check out of reality till he kicks the bucket for real.

\----------

Waking to bright light is  _ the  _ fucking worst. Especially when you’re too damn weak to lift a hand to your face- no shield for you Winchester. Just some feeble kitten pawing at the floor while you squint at the dangerously beautiful face of the guy who stuffed you in the box to begin with. 

“Hello, Dean.”

Being too dehydrated to do more than groan was probably a good thing. Cas stands on perfect manners from his lost sheep. Insists they at least keep a civil tongue while he teaches them how to act properly. Dean isn’t all that good at keeping his thoughts  _ inside _ .

“Feel like behaving today?”

He doesn’t not really. But Dean nods anyway. He doesn’t have a choice if he wants to be fed, and he knows it. Cas is invested in re-educating his lost lambs but Dean’s not sure how long Cas will actually keep trying. If he doesn’t get any positive results- At some point, he’ll just let him die- probably. Can’t die before he knows what happened to Sam.

“Such a good boy.”

Dean hates how eagerly he leans into Castiel’s hand. Between the box and the whippings and the- the everything else- he’s become starved of more than food. 

“It’s good to see you accept comfort, Dean. I wish you no harm.”

God, he’s a big bag of dicks- no harm indeed. Dean lets his eyes slip shut instead of rolling them, gets more praise for that.

“It doesn’t feel like it for you, I’m sure, but once you learn to embrace truth and love it will all get better.”

Dean knows what would make him feel better. A burger. Or pizza. Chilled beers. Fucking freedom.

“Look at me, Dean. Let me see you learn.”

Sam was good at puppy dog eyes. Dean’s not sure his wavering attempt has the same power, but it seems to satisfy. 

“We feed the mind, but we also need to nourish the body.” Cas rambles, and Dean concentrates hard on not showing his loathing- he needs food. “Benny, come here.”

The other captive looks worse than before. Smaller still- not as underfed as Dean but he’s not getting the food he needs to maintain the body mass he had before he went missing. Not enough sunlight either- But the worst part are the dead eyes above a gag Dean hasn’t seen before. Some kind of muzzle.

No matter how glad he is to see the other man alive, Dean’s attention is inevitably drawn to the bowl he’s holding in manacled hands. Food- he doesn’t even care that it’s probably tofu or some other insult to humanity. 

“Are you ready to receive, Dean?”

God, Dean wants to insult the guy. Nods instead- ignores the strange phrasing.

“Words, Dean. Sacrament cannot be accepted with just a nod.”

Fuck- he’s going to die- he can’t fucking talk. Not anymore. Offers up an agonizing croak anyway. 

“Oh my poor child.” 

Cas fusses over Dean like he’s not one-hundred-fucking-percent the root cause of the problem. Sends Benny to get water and drips it achingly slow between Dean’s parched lips. 

Dean can’t help but lick at the man’s fingers as he chases the moisture. He’d grab the jug from him if he could- but here he is weak and helpless. Whimpers like a lovestruck dog when the hand returns. Slowly rehydrating Dean’s mouth and throat.

“There we go- feel better?”

Dean’s voice breaks, sounds and feels like he’s got gravel inside his throat, but he manages a meek and polite. “Yes, Castiel.”

“Your aura is beautiful like this.”

It’s hard to look at Cas. Hard to keep his newfound voice in check- he needs food. He needs to do this to survive. 

“Now, sacrament. Are you willing to accept my teachings, Dean?”

“Yeah- yes, Castiel.”

The bowl is back, plucked from Benny’s hands and brought tantalizingly close. There’s steam, which means it's still warm- he doesn’t care what he’s going to be asked to agree to- it’s done. Dusted. Signed in fucking blood.

“Hmmm-” Castiel doesn’t offer a spoon, purses his lips at the shell in front of him. “I don’t deal with maybes, Dean. What I expect from my children is true devotion- true hunger.”

Dean’s pretty sure he’s never been more hungry in his entire life. Starved in all kinds of ways he’s not exactly sure which specific hunger prompts his next word.

“Please.”

That brings a smile to Cas’ mouth. Bingo.

“Please what, my child?”

“Please, Cas- Castiel. Please feed me.” 

“Of course, Dean. Whatever you need.”

The first spoon is heaven, and Dean has no clue what he’s actually eating. He’s not tasting, not chewing, not waiting for Cas to take it back. It’s warm and thick and it’s in his throat and it’s  _ his _ now.

“I will always feed you when you ask it of me.”

“Please,” Dean begs again, breathing faster. “Please feed me.” 

Another spoon, cooled with a soothing puff of air before it slips past his lips.

“I care for you, Dean.”

“Please.” The word worked before, it works again- it’s barely got any meaning beyond the fact that it summons food. “Please, Castiel- please feed me.”

“I will always care for you.” He pauses the spoon. “Say it.”

“Please feed me?” Dean tries, eyeing the spoon and then glancing up at the man holding it.

“Say I will always care for you.”

“I- you- you’ll always take care of me.” There’s only a moment of hesitation, but the spoon is too close to rebel now. 

“Again. Ask me for food.”

“P- please feed me, Castiel.” 

“Will I always help you?”

Dean nods, neck powered on the sheer need for more food. “Yes- yes- you- you’ll always take care of me.”

“Such a good boy for me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments feed me and headcannons/ideas/thoughts/... are so fucking welcome please tell me your thoughts I love them!!!


	17. Vitor + Bela - I DID NOT SEE THAT COMING

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 17. I DID NOT SEE THAT COMING  
>  **Blackmail** | Dirty Secret | Wrongfully Accused  
> extra tags - rape, non-con, dildos, mafia, everyone is terrible, sex worker Bella, bondage, pegging, gags

Victor knows what he likes, and what Victor likes are special things. Things most people did _not_ get the chance to experience.

Collectors editions, fancy dinners, exclusive extras, ...

Some would call it gluttony, others told him he was ‘living the life he deserved’, but all Victor really knew was that he never seemed to be satisfied with what he had. Always chasing the next one of a kind experience. Looking for that one way to make something unforgettable and tailored exactly to what he wanted.

It’s not that he enjoys _spending_ his hard-earned money, it’s that he likes spending it _well_. If he’s going to work his ass off keeping the streets clean then he’s spending every second of his downtime doing exactly what he wants. No ifs no buts. He wants top service. He wants perfection. 

The only thing better than getting something exclusive, is getting a good deal on that exclusivity.

There’s always some sense of smug satisfaction when you’re getting more than you paid for. An extra chicken nugget that got into your box at the drive-through. Some unexpected tax break. The cashier forgetting to scan that second box of fresh organic raspberries. A perp walking right into your arms before you had to blow your budget on him. That perfect lead landing you a pay raise. Only having to pay half price for a drive through coffee. Getting cheaper haircuts at the place that’s probably a maffia cover, but they give excellent service cause they’re scared he’ll figure it out… all wonderful little ways for life to get better. 

All exclusives- all that bit extra, but never _quite_ enough. Never truly satisfied.

He guesses that’s what life is about, really, looking for that next high. He’ll find it one day, and until then- he’s going to have to enjoy himself exactly like he wants. It’s cost him a couple of wives but who doesn’t have an ex-wife or two these days?

After days, weeks, months of upholding the laws, risking his life, working his fucking ass off- he deserves a bit of time off. Bit of selfishness. He’s earned the right to bend the law a bit, toe across that occasional line to get another hit of exclusive perfection.

He’s getting a hit right now. Who needs cocaine when you could get this? If only his colleagues knew _this_ was what he got up to when he begged off going to the bar. Fuck massages for tense shoulders like Kenny did. Screw spending too much cash on crappy cocktails and bad DJ's. Everyone could do that. 

No, what he needs is leaving his ID behind in his hotel room and taking a cab to the seedier part of town. He’d checked the brothel out beforehand of course. No matter how badly he needed his fix he wasn’t playing into some trafficker’s hand to get it. 

So while he’d had to sidestep something that had probably been a rat once on the way over the place wasn't a dump. The ladies paid rent to the owner but didn't have to hand over their passports to do it. 

Place was still working outside of the law, of course, but that was exactly why he was fucking here. He gave the ladies some business and they gave him the best service they could offer or he raided the place. Quid pro quo that didn't hurt no one.

Victor’s eyes roll back as another wave of perfect pressure runs through his bound frame. Oh yeah. This was the best idea he’d had in a good- long- while.

He gasps for breath around the thick gag in between his teeth when the woman railing him slaps his ass; hard. 

“Pay attention, pet.” 

Victor groans. God he loves her accent. Loves all of her, really. Especially her well trained abs. British bitch probably worked out a lot, cause she’s been fucking him for a while now and she is _not_ getting tired. Or perhaps she has a lot of clients with more exotic needs.

Not that he cares either way, as long as he gets his.

“ _Or_ , I’m going to assume you’re ready for more.” 

Adrenaline spikes at the threat. There’s an intimidating line-up of dildos in front of his face. Out of his reach, of course; the woman is a miracle worker with rope and he _had_ told her to make it good. No way is he getting his chest off the bed. Isn’t getting his knees off of the grubby floor either. It’s a testament to her skill that he doesn’t care about that.

“Are you ready?”

This was what he’d demanded after all. _Tie me down, gag me, make me squirm, call me some names, and peg me. I want something large inside my ass before I leave and I want to come so hard I forget your name. Got it?_ And then he’d handed over a nice crisp 100 dollar bill, with the rest to be paid after he’d left a satisfied man. _And if you manage to fuck it up you know there's going to be consequences, so don't try to play stupid games with me. One scene. One orgasm. Oh, and don't get your cunt anywhere near my face, not my thing._

“You open enough for my next toy? Is that why you’re daydreaming? Am I _boring_ you?”

There’s a gap in the lineup in front of his eyes. Right in the middle. Two down, one in, two to go. 

Grunting as she changes the angle to better rub against his prostate, Victor nods. Fuck yeah he wants more. 

“So greedy, fucking bitch.”

Her gym routine had to be impressive, the swat to his ass stings more than he’d expect from the tiny twig of a woman. If she keeps it up he might even come back for seconds. Place wasn't that far out of his usual way- 

“Tied up like a stuck pig and you still think you're the one in charge.”

She laughs, and Victor lets the words wash over him like the fantasy they are. One wrong move and he's out of the ropes and on the phone with his contacts. Not that she's going to do something stupid. She's an immigrant. White enough to blend in but green card was green card. 

“But since you’re asking so nicely.”

The slick drag of the toy out of his abused hole is agonizing. Unlike the first two dildos, pretty run of the mill neon colored dick lookalikes, this fucker is tapered. Thick and delicious when she pushes in but the rapidly shrinking girth as it pulls all the way out has his hole clenching. It likes being full. Loves being stretched and warm. He’s too empty, appreciates the tap of the blunt orange head against his hungry hole. He can’t see her, face comfy on the shirt he laid out on the predictably filthy mattress as she walks around him to plop the glistening toy back into the middle of the lineup.

He can’t keep his eyes off her. Petite and delicious. So pale. Swagger to her hips. Pretending to be in control, and it’s hot.

The straps of her harness are loose, cradle empty and ready to receive more fake cock. He should have her ride them too, give her an extra Benjamin to see her take the bigger ones. 

“Maybe I should skip this one. Fill you right on up with number five.” The woman, the _whore_ , _his_ whore, pokes the fourth dildo with a manicured nail. The neon green head wibbled a bit, leaning over towards the fifth in line. Four was an inch taller than three, but not much wider. It would open him up, sure. But nothing like five would. Another inch taller, that blue monstrosity had _girth_ on its side. 

“Or I can go straight to six.” There’s an edge to her voice, played up, and hoping to carry half the authority Victor carries, and it rattled down Victor’s spine with electrifying precision. He watches, transfixed as she reaches under the pillow and pulls out yet another toy. It’s plain black and the size of his arm. Not _her_ arm, his arm.

Victor swallows. He hasn’t agreed to that, but then again it’s all for show. Unless he gives his consent she won’t dream of actually trying anything. 

“I bet.” Her fingers still hovering above the giant thing. “I could get it inside of you. Right now.”

He breathes, eyes rolling back at the delicious idea. God the stretch would be _divine_ . It’d ruin him. Absolutely murder his hole and any possible experience in the future. It would be _unique_. 

But he wasn’t ready for it either. Victor knew his body, knew what he could handle and what he couldn’t. 

Just as he’s about to shake his head, she grabs his hair; tiny fist like a vice. With his limbs tied down, he’s immobile and momentarily startled. Grunts around the thick gag, eyes widening as she pushes the fourth and fifth dildos on their side; letting them roll off the bed and thump off rhythm to the floor.

His heart rate trips into too fast when she picks up the monstrosity. It’s heavy enough to warrant two hands but she’s got one holding Victor’s head still. It slips from her fingers, flops heavy to the bed- closer now, close enough to see just how big it really is. He whines, grunts, and tries again to shake.

“No need to beg, pet.” She doesn’t let go of his head, yanks it back so he has to look up the pale line of her body. “I’ll give you just what you want; what you need.”

Suddenly sick, Victor tries to get out of the ropes. Fuck this shit. Fuck her and her stupid accent. Fuck the whole brothel he’s burning it all to the ground- legally speaking, of course. But the ropes hold, knots tight and secure-

Fuck-

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

There’s some grunting involved when he puts his weight into it, but for all intents and purposes, he’s just wiggling his ass back and forth a bit and getting fucking nowhere. He growls, seeing red even as the gravitas of the situation dawns on him.

The whore leaves the dildo poking at his nose- Victor goes cross-eyed for a second trying to actually see the thing - and slides down to his level. Licks at his face like that’s a turn on and digs nails into his jaw. Her breath is hot against the shell of his ear, so close he can hear the rasp of lungs that have seen their fair share of cigarettes. 

“This is all for you, pet. Well- _this_ bit is. The fact that I’m here, the video cameras hidden all around the room- that’s for someone else.”

Victor’s eyes go wide. What?

“Remember that little pizza shop you had shut down cause they didn’t want to wait on you hand and fucking foot? Couple of months ago? Miraculously led you to a drug ring?”

He does- he’d been casing the joint for months. People getting beat up in the area by some thought he was big newcomer. Victor had done some investigation in person- sampled some pizza in their obviously money laundering restaurant. Fuckers hadn’t even let him sit down to order. 

“That wasn’t just some newcomer big guy- that was Donny senior’s grandson you sent to prison for not being a fan of your donut eating face.”

She gets up, leaves him lying there trying to catch his breath. He’s _so_ fucked. It won’t even matter if he says he didn’t consent to any of this- he’s in a whorehouse- he’s soliciting- he’s on tape. That it’s kink only makes it worse.

This is going to cost him his job.

A stinging slap to his ass brings him back into the moment- brings him anger. How fucking _dare_ she? The rage falters when fingers slip into his sopping hole. He can’t fight the pleasure, confused hormone riddled brain can’t focus. Enough pressure on his prostate, and boom, his dick is hard enough to pound nails and that’s just making the video evidence worse. No, your honor, I didn't actually consent to the sex I paid for even though I'm aroused in the fucking video evidence.

She doesn’t stop fingering him open, getting more lube inside his already dripping hole, to drape herself over his back. Gets close enough to not get her voice on tape probably. 

“What were you even doing? Looking for bribes? We looked into your finances, you’re clean enough.”

He grunts, growls some threat into a gag _he_ asked for. 

“Shits and giggles? Power trip?”

It’s hard to think, hard to focus on what he’s meant to be doing. Harder still to forget the threat poking him in the cheek.

“Not that it matters.” She laughs, breasts sliding across Victor's back- the fear is making him sweat. “What matters is that Donny wants to see you squirm like you’ve never squirmed before.”

He gets another swat, more sting that bruise, and then his hole’s empty. Not that it’s going to stay that way. 

It takes two hands to balance the toy- slide it into the empty cradle at the front of her harness. The weight of the thing drags her hips forward. Swings like a bat waiting for a ball. Casual- heavy. 

Too thick for any of this to work without bodily trauma. She’s going to turn him inside out and then he’s getting fired- he should have gone to the bar.

It’s even more threatening when she slathers it in lube. Which means that while she’s obviously in the mafia’s pocket she’s not about to actually kill him. That’s not what this is about.

“Open wide piggy. Oh, look at that greedy hole winking. So desperate you can’t contain it.”

The toy’s tip smacks into his overly lubed hole. It slips in the mess of it, drags across his perineum and balls but she aims it back up. Victor shakes his head, last resort, and pretty much begging for mercy. They’ve already got what they need. He’s on fucking tape buying sex- negotiating kink with a whore he has no business talking to.

“Breathe, pet.” She orders, but doesn’t wait; thumbing the giant thing inside of him. He’s too loose, fucked wide with two dildos and fucked up on dopamine, to keep it out. He can’t clench like he wants to- whines high and panicked around the gag. 

It’s in. Going in. Going going going. Forcing him wider than he’s ever been. Wider than he’s ever wanted to be. 

Wider than feels possible. 

There’s a hand on his head, a barely-there comfort while his world narrows down to his rim- guts getting rearranged. White-hot pain and deep-seated feeling of no thank you. He blacks out for half a second- wakes to the dull thump of his heartbeat around the full girth of the toy.

It’s in.

The whore’s pelvis sits flush against his trembling ass. 

He doesn’t breathe in fear it makes anything move. Shivers with cold sweat. 

It’s agony when she moves closer still, blankets him.

“Here’s how this is going to go, pet.” She slaps him, gives a threatening grind of her hips when he doesn’t respond. “Pay attention darling. It’s important. Now. I’m going to fuck you with this. No way out of that I’m afraid- Don gets what Don wants. But you’ll have a choice afterwards.”

He’s too weak to do more than look at her.

“There we go. Now-” Another punishing thrust. “Once we’re done here you’re going to go back to work like nothing fucking happened, and you’re going to make some evidence disappear. Make Donny junior’s trial go a bit more favorably.”

He knows where this is going- he knows.

“You make up for what you did wrong, and Don might not release this video. Keep it nice and private.”

Somehow, with the rivers of lube helping ease the way- it’s become more manageable. 

“You got that?”

Lose his job, or his dignity- yeah he’s got it. Victor nods.

“What was that?”

He nods again, more vigorously- before he realizes exactly what it will look like on video. Consent. Fuck.

“Excellent.” She sits back up, wiggling her hips till she’s comfortable behind him. “Such a hungry toy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same old same old! Feel free to yell at me in the comments or anywhere else!! What's happening next???


End file.
